ad burden in the
closet adjoining her sleeping-room, destined from that moment to become
an oratory. Then, leaving Henriette in her room, paler and more
beautiful than ever, she entered the great ballroom, the same room in
which, two years and a half ago, the first chapter of our history
opened.

All eyes were turned on her, but she bore the general gaze with a proud
and almost joyous air.

She had religiously carried out the last wish of her friend.

Seeing her, Charles pushed tremblingly through the gilded crowd around
her.

"Sister," said he, aloud, "I thank you."

Then in a low tone:

"Take care!" said he, "you have a spot of blood on your arm."

"Ah! what difference does that make, sire," said Marguerite, "since I
have a smile on my lips?"

CHAPTER LXII.

THE SWEAT OF BLOOD.

A few days after the terrible scene we have just described, that is, on
the 30th of May, 1574, while the court was at Vincennes, suddenly a
great commotion was heard in the chamber of the King. The latter had
been taken ill in the midst of the ball he had given the day of the
execution of the two young men, and had been ordered by his physicians
into the pure air of the country.

It was eight o'clock in the morning. A small group of courtiers were
talking excitedly in the antechamber, when suddenly a cry was heard, and
Charles's nurse appeared at the door, her eyes filled with tears,
calling frantically:

"Help! Help!"

"Is his Majesty worse?" asked the Captain de Nancey, whom, as we know,
the King had relieved from all duty to Queen Catharine in order to
attach him to himself.

"Oh! Blood! Blood!" cried the nurse. "The doctors! call the doctors!"

Mozille and Ambroise Pare in turn attended the august patient, and the
latter, seeing the King fall asleep, had taken advantage of the fact to
withdraw for a few moments. Meanwhile a great perspiration had broken
out all over the King; and as Charles suffered from a relaxation of the
capillary vessels, which caused a haemorrhage of the skin, the bloody
sweat had alarmed the nurse, unaccustomed to this strange phenomenon,
who, being a Protestant, kept repeating that it was a judgment for the
blood of the Huguenots shed in the massacre of Saint Bartholomew.

The courtiers went in all directions in search of the doctor, who could
not be far away, and whom they could not fail to meet. The antechamber,
therefore, became deserted, every one being anxious to show his zeal in